


That's Life

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2021-04-08
Packaged: 2021-04-25 20:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: Post S3: Sam and Ruth deal with the aftermath of their personal choices
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 28
Kudos: 45





	1. That's Life

** _Chapter 1: That's Life_ **

One year.

He wished he didn’t remember the exact date so well, but as he stared at the calendar hanging sadly on his kitchen wall, Sam once again faced the fact that he could only count his days in relation to his time with a busted ticker. Three hundred and sixty five of them. If he ever thought there was a fucking chance he would forget that date, there was a nice note written in red ink on the calendar reminding him that he had his one year check up.

The note was written in Justine’s writing, with big fucking exclamation points and all.

An intercepted phone call from his doctor’s office a month prior had done what he didn’t have the balls to do - tell her that he was close to living on borrowed time. There had been a huge blowout from that call. 

_ “Why didn’t you tell me?” _

_ “Why did you keep letting me bring booze home?” _

_ “How the fuck could you do this?” _

_ “Give me your damn cigarettes, you asshole!” _

It took a couple days of creative maneuvering to convince her he wasn’t at death’s door just yet and that she didn’t have to babysit his every goddamn move. Letting her toss his stash of smokes and bourbon probably helped, even if he had to grit his teeth and fight back the urge to wrestle them out of her hands while she did it. Given his state of health and her wrestling training, she would have kicked his ass anyway, and then he’d be sober _ and _ bruised.

So. Technically one year to the day from the “cardiac event” and one month exactly since his house had been forcibly converted to a sobriety home. He both loved and loathed her for it.

“Do you need a ride?” 

Justine’s shout from her bedroom broke through his grim thoughts and he shuffled slightly, rubbing at the two day stubble on his face.

“Nah, get outa here,” he told her. He reached out to the bowl on the counter where he kept his car keys and picked them up, turning in time to see his daughter emerge from the hall. He chucked the keys at her and she caught them easily.

“You’re going, right? This isn’t some scam to get me out of the house and then you fuck off?” she asked, accusatory.

Sam rolled his eyes.

“And delight in your company when you call the office to find out if I showed up? Yes I’m fucking going,” he barked. “Get the hell outa here, reporters don’t like to be kept waiting. They tend to mention it in their columns and you aren’t famous enough to be treated nicely yet.”

“Whatever,” Justine said, grabbing her bag. She yanked the front door open and barely glanced over her shoulder. “See you for dinner. Stay sober!”

“Yeah, stay morbid!”

_ Slam_.

“Fuckin’ teenagers,” he muttered, reaching for his coffee cup.

One movie that was ticking its way up from obscure niche film to the coming of age saga of the year didn’t make a single dent in Justine’s nineteen year old attitude most days. Fortunately, she was able to can it when she had publicity shit to take care of, and the attitude she couldn’t can just made her seem edgy and relatable.

He gulped down the last of the lukewarm coffee, grimacing and wishing he could follow it with a cigarette. To combat the feeling, he took an absurdly hot shower, followed by a shave in order to further impress his GP. 

Face still stinging from the aftershave, dressed in a freshly ironed shirt and trousers, Sam left the house and walked down the street to the nearest bus stop. 

Justine had tried every which way to convince him she should buy her own car, but the father gene in him kicked in and wouldn’t let her waste her money when they practically car pooled everywhere and he could take a bus or cab when she needed the car. A youth spent squandering the little money he’d made in Hollywood was enough of a lesson for him; he wasn’t about to let her make the same mistakes just in case her movie was a one hit wonder. Not that it would be. It was a fucking masterpiece and he knew it. Knew she’d do better things than he could ever dream of accomplishing. She had time to blow her money on stupid stuff, but while he still had some semblance of influence on her, he’d enforce some sanity on the financials.

The doctor’s office was quiet when he walked in, only the drone of the TV in the corner filling the space. He walked up to the front desk, leaning on the counter and waiting for the receptionist to acknowledge him.

“Doctor Klein will be with you shortly,” she told him after he’d provided all of the proper identification. She waived limply at the waiting room. “Go ahead and have a seat.”

“I’ll be waiting with palpitations,” he said with a smart ass smile.

The old broad barely glanced at him.

Sam plopped down into a deflated leather seat and let his eyes wander around the room, considering the magazines, the faded books, and the TV. He paused when he saw familiar graphics flash across the screen. He watched the familiar faces of Arthie and Dawn ham for the audience, curlers in their white wigs and giant fuzzy slippers on their feet.

Thanks to Bash’s inheritance, Bash Howard Productions had bought out the rights to GLOW and all the characters from KDTV. The beatdown biddies were back in action.

Only proved that enough zeros on a check were enough to get exactly what you wanted in this town, even if the network president was an asshole with a grudge.

He shook the thought of all of that from his head. Thinking about KDTV made him think about Tom Grant which made him think about … other people. People he really didn’t want to dwell on.

His heart was in enough trouble as it was.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“How’s the comfort level these days?”

Sam thought about the question for a moment while the cold stethoscope moved around his chest. He never knew what to do during that particular part of the exam. Breath deep? Slow? Or keep it steady, keep the heart rate robust? Fuck if he knew after the last year of appointments.

“Eh,” he said. “Mostly good.”

“Chest pains? Tightness? Shortness of breath?”

The same old questions, the same old answers.

“Only after I finish a marathon.”

Doctor Klein looked at him. Sam sighed.

“On occasion. Long days, stressful days. Swim for too long. It’s not bad. Not like the fucking Big One.”

“Hm.”

Doctor Klein put the stethoscope back around his neck and picked up Sam’s chart, making some notes.

“Well that’s not a great reaction,” Sam said.

“I’d like to run some tests today, if you’ve got the time.”

There it was. He swallowed the overwhelming sense of doom that welled up inside of him, trying to remain calm.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got the time.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Some hours later, after being poked and prodded and hooked up to monitors, Sam was back on the exam table, feeling worn out.

“So I’ll get right down to it, I know how you hate to pussy foot around stuff,” Doctor Klein said bluntly. “What we’re looking at right now are results from stress testing, cholesterol. We’re seeing a trend that’s indicative of a decline in your overall coronary health.”

There was a beat of silence before Sam could even react.

“Shit,” he said, blinking.

“Now, we’ve got options,” his doctor went on. “You can look at reducing your stress levels and working on diet and exercise even more.”

“I work in fucking Hollywood, they write stress into the contracts,” Sam said. “What’s the other option?”

“Surgery to get in and clear up the mess.”

Sam groaned and leaned to one side, running a hand over his mustache.

“You’re doing everything right, Sam,” the doctor told him with a placating smile. “But you’re trying to play catch up for thirty years of destructive behavior. Unfortunately, we have to clean up the damage.”

Sam sat quietly for a few long moments, letting the information settle into his brain. 

Un-fucking-believable. 

Over a year of healthy eating and living (a few drinks and cigarettes notwithstanding) and he was going to end up under a surgeon’s knife anyway.

“How soon do I have to do this?” he asked, his voice surprisingly shaky to his own ears.

“Sooner rather than later.”

“My kid’s film is showing at a festival in New York in two weeks,” Sam explained. “Any chance I can make that happen first?”

He tried not to make it sound like it was a dying wish, but the severity of the situation was impossible to ignore.

“I think we could swing that,” the doctor said, nodding. “But I need you to keep it clean. No drinks. No smokes. And definitely no blow.”

“Scout’s honor,” Sam said, raising three fingers and meaning it. 


	2. Put Your Dreams Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to publish this long before now, but, well, global pandemics happen and suddenly I am working my full time job at home while also parenting an extremely adventurous one year old. I really appreciate all the wonderful feedback, it has kept me plugging away at this story even with everything that has been going on. I hope everyone is safe and healthy! Please enjoy this chapter - hopefully the next one won't take so long!

_ ** Put Your Dreams Away** _

  
  


In an effort to be more honest with Justine, Sam gave her the exact play by play of his doctor’s appointment. And in an effort to show how relaxed she was with that information, Justine insisted on spending a shit ton of quality time with him that didn’t make him feel at all like he was marching to his grave. They had coffee in the morning together, went out to lunch, cooked dinner together, watched crappy old horror films or played card games until his yawns betrayed his age and he had to kiss her on the forehead and watch her eyes turn down in worry as he walked to his bedroom.

It felt awful feeling that happy.

The weekend before they left for the film festival, Jonathan got them invited to a party in the Hills that would afford them the opportunity to rub elbows with a variety of important executives. It was the first shmoozy event Sam had been to in almost a year and to say that his social anxiety was starting to creep in was an understatement. He needed to have a damn good game plan if he was going to go into that thing stone cold sober. 

No fucking clue what that game plan was going to be, but he’d work it out. He’d hide in the john the entire time if he had to, just so long as Justine got the exposure she needed for her career.

The morning of the party, the two of them were sitting at the kitchen table, emptying a pot of coffee and picking at an overly sweet coffee cake. Justine was gently rolling mounds of crumble off the top of her piece with her finger, staring out the window at the garden. It was overcast, the kind of Southern California morning that started off grey and cool before letting up to a warm afternoon. 

It wasn’t unusual for them to sit in silence and be happy with it, but he could sense that something was eating at her. 

“You nervous about tonight?” he ventured.

“Mm,” Justine replied, shrugging. “Not really. You?”

“Fuck yeah I am.”

He could do honesty sometimes, especially if it meant finding out what was on her mind.

“Really?” Justine asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, you know, these things are like some big high school reunion sometimes,” he explained. “All these people you started out in the same grade with and twenty-five years later you get to see who got fat, who made a success out of themselves, who’s still giving hand jobs to get what they want.”

“Gross,” Justine said, making a face and standing up to dump her plate in the sink.

“But true.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not the way I plan to get what I want,” she said firmly, crossing her arms.

Sam blinked, a little surprised.

“It shouldn’t be. Christ,” he swore.

He knew the problem was fucking rampant in their business, but it still pissed him off to no end that it existed. Sure, he’d hooked up with the talent more than he probably should have over the years, but he’d  _ never  _ done it quid pro quo. The men who did were pieces of shit. There was a reason why he smashed the hell out of Tom Grant’s windshield. Well, several reasons, but a big one was that he was a pervert who needed to learn that you don’t take advantage of women, particularly women that were important to Sam.

Which brought him back to the present. 

“Who’s being an asshole with you? Is it Jonathan, is he being a little dick - ”

“No, god no,” Justine interrupted, making a face. “He’s been fine. But… he’s not going to be the only producer I ever work with. What if the next one isn’t like him?”

“You think you want to move on from Jonathan?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he’s been great and I can’t complain, but there are bigger studios out there, he’s even said that, and this party tonight...I have to set things up right for the next script.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

“The next script?” he asked, not bothering to keep the tone of excitement out of his voice.

Justine glanced down and picked at a thumbnail.

“I’ve...kind of been working on something,” she said slowly.

“Fuck,” Sam said, smiling. So that’s what she’d been thinking so damn hard about. “That was fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Justine said, shrugging. “The idea just came to me a few weeks ago and wouldn’t leave me alone, so…”

“What do you have so far?”

“Nothing great. Just some sloppy characters and an idea.”   
  


“Can I see -”

“No!” she practically shouted with an embarrassed half smile. “It has, like, four pages, it’s mostly random shit right now!”

“Alright, fine, you know, fine,” Sam relented, holding up a hand. He took a sip of his coffee and placed the mug carefully back down on the table, sucking the liquid past his teeth a bit. He let another moment pass. “So maybe enough to pitch tonight -”

“Oh my god, what would I give them, my handwritten gibberish crap?”

“Look, I’m just sayin, it’s good timing.”

“Yeah, it would be if I had a finished script, or a halfway finished script.”

“You can worry about that shit later, just wow them with your ideas,” he offered encouragingly. At this point, he was just half messing with her. The other half actually knew she could pull it off.

Justine let out a sharp laugh.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good plan,” she said, rolling her eyes and walking over to the counter to help herself to more coffee. “Pitch an idea I haven’t fully formed yet.”

“I’m just trying to help you become a rich and famous Hollywood writer, but hey, you know, do your own thing I guess,” Sam said dryly, shrugging. He didn’t want to push her too much, but he could basically attribute his entire career to pitching unformed ideas and hers were a hell of a lot better than his. Shit, he took on GLOW without having a fucking clue what the show was going to be until…

“You’ve already helped with that,” Justine said, pulling him out of his own thoughts. She walked over and plopped a kiss down on his unruly hair. “Just by being my dad.”

His eyebrows lowered and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. Definitely not about to get emotional.

“I’m going to relax for a bit,” Justine said. “Catch you later.”

She wandered into her room and not ten minutes later he could hear the snapping of typewriter keys.

Sam smiled.

* * *

  
  


The valet had the decency not to look at Sam’s car like it wasn’t an outdated piece of junk compared to the shiny BMWs and Mercedes that were rolling up the driveway. Sam pulled at the lapels of his grey blazer and glanced over at Justine. She had gone with a very edgy black pantsuit with a knee length blazer, collar popped and accented with stark white earrings. She looked ready to take on all of Hollywood.

“You good?” he asked as they walked towards the front door.

“Yup,” she said quickly.

“Okay. And remember, any of these assholes try anything that you were talking about this morning, they’re not worth your fucking time. Got that?” 

Justine smiled at him and they walked into the mansion. 

He lost her to the thrum of the crowd pretty early on. Jonathan swooped in with the promise of introducing her to some very influential people and Sam knew that if he tagged along he would only get in the way. No one wants their old dad standing right next to them while they try to network as the next big thing. He was trying to remain unobtrusive by the ficus plants on the opposite side of the room from the open bar, nursing a club soda, when a familiar face stepped into view.

Debbie Egan still knew how to own a room, dressed to the nines in a form fitting, hot pink number and hair to the heavens. She seemed to be attending alone, smiling and greeting just about everyone she passed by as she made her way to the bar. When she caught his eye, he wasn’t sure if he should pretend he didn’t know her or not. They hadn’t left things on the smoothest terms in Vegas and neither one had made any attempts to get in contact since she started her network.

But this was fucking Tinseltown and certain niceties had to be observed.

He cleared his throat and smiled, peeling himself away from the wall and making his way towards her. The bartender was just handing her a scotch and soda on the rocks when he reached her and she took it hastily, giving Sam a cool smile and looking like she was already plotting her escape from him.

“Sam,” she said politely. “How are you?”

“Having the goddamn time of my life, how are you?”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, not sure why he was trying to make an excuse for bumping into her unexpectedly.

“I run a huge television network, I get invited to these things,” Debbie said dryly, swirling the ice in her drink. It clinked against the crystal as her eyes scanned the room. “We were bound to run into each other eventually, this town is so fucking small.”

Sam tilted his head in acknowledgement of that.

“So how’s the network?” he asked, trying to be polite.

“Fine.”

“The kid?”

“Fine.”

“Should I bother asking about anyone else?” he said, growing irritated.

“Who else is there?”

“I dunno, the bevy of wrestling beauties you stole from Las Vegas, how are they doing?”

“Kind of you to ask after a year, do you even remember which ones came back to LA?” she snipped, looking straight at him.

“Arthie, Yolanda, Melrose, Cherry - ”

“Yeah, point made,” she interrupted. “They’re all good, working hard.”

He nodded, letting a moment go by and taking a drink of his soda water, wishing like hell it was something stronger. 

“Any news from the rest of ‘em?” he asked, intending with every fiber of his being to sound casual.

Debbie looked at him again, her mouth softening just the slightest bit and her eyes far too assessing. 

“What?” he snapped.

“Wow,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“ _ What _ ?” he pressed again, standing up a little straighter.

“I just...wow. I mean, I thought it was just a Vegas thing with her, I didn’t know you were carrying a torch.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam growled, gripping his glass harder. “Forget I asked.”

He turned on his heel with a firm intention of stalking away and hoping he never ran into Debbie Egan again.

“She’s in New York.”

He hated himself a little for letting that stop him in his tracks, but he needed to hear. He needed to find out where the hell she was, how the hell she was doing, even if it meant nothing came of it.

“SoHo,” Debbie clarified as he turned around.

Of course. Nothing but the artsiest of all neighborhoods for Ruth Wilder.

“She’s doing okay?”

“As far as I know. We don’t talk all that much,” she said quickly, and he detected a hint of regret in her voice. 

Sam bit his lip, turning over a dozen more questions and statements in his head that had plagued him for the better part of the year. He thought about asking Debbie for her address, if she was performing in anything, if she was seeing anyone, but the bitter part of him that couldn’t handle humiliation put a stop to that immediately. It was bad enough that Debbie knew how he had felt about Ruth, throwing him a pathetic little bone to try to make him feel better.

Fuck that.

“Okay,” he said, tilting his glass towards her. “Good chat. See you around.”

“Oh Sam,” Debbie said, professionalism slipping over her face again. “Always a fucking pleasure.”


	3. I’d Rather Be Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely getting this story down on paper :) Thanks to all still reading for sticking with it! Forgive any mistakes, written mostly at the end of some long days with my toddler sleeping next to me

_ **I’d Rather Be Blue** _

“Hey, Lou, can I get a pastrami on rye and a Coke?”

“Comin’ right up, doll!”

“Thanks.”

Ruth started to walk towards the window bar of the deli, but turned back towards the counter halfway there.

“And, can I get an apple on the side?”

Lou laughed as he pulled the bread onto the counter and slathered mayonnaise over it.

“You still think an apple is going to fool your students into thinking you eat healthy?”

Ruth shrugged, pulling her workout bag higher onto her shoulder. 

“I think it works.”

“I think maybe you go to that gym smelling like pickles and knishes.”

“But carrying an apple,” Ruth said, smiling.

It was probably true. She probably did show up to her self-defense class with an eau de Jewish deli emanating from her skin. Not that it mattered. She could reek of rotten eggs and most of the women in her class would still show up and hope that Ruth would teach them how to hip toss their husbands.

She slid onto a stool and dropped her bag beneath the bar, staring out the window onto 3rd Avenue.

Three thousand miles away from where she last peeled off her red leotard and wiped away her glittering eye shadow and Zoya was still following her like a shadow. Zoya was the only reason she had the day job she did, hustling her way through a self-defense course and learning how to teach the women of the Upper East Side how to defend themselves against subway creeps.

Not that those women ever took the subway, but it paid the bills, so Ruth wasn’t going to complain.

Watching the people bustling down the street outside on the sidewalk in the fading daylight, she was struck again by how different New York was from L.A. If she had heard anyone outside of her studio in East L.A., she would have been paranoid that she was about to get robbed. Now, she felt uneasy if the sidewalk outside of her SOHO apartment was too quiet. 

Just one of the many things that had changed in her life since she’d made the decision to uproot and jet across the country. The idea of Hollywood had felt too small, too cramped after her trip home to Omaha, and no matter how glorious Debbie tried to make her new network seem, Ruth could not bring herself to want any part of it. Without GLOW to go back to, her options felt limited. She’d dropped a line to her friend just to let her know she was still alive and to tell her she’d traded rush hour traffic on The 5 for crowded commutes on the ABC train. Debbie had tried one more time to get Ruth to join her at the network, and Ruth had politely turned her down, again.

She was glad that Debbie had hung up the phone without making any more speeches about Ruth’s utter failure as an actress.

Those words had hurt her more than possibly anything else in her already shitty, crumbling existence. She thought about them way too often.

_ “If being an actress was going to happen for you, it would have happened by now.” _

And, no matter how hard she tried to block everything about that day from her memory, those words were always followed up by another sentence, significantly more devastating in her mind.

_ “You’re not getting the part.” _

Everything inside her burned when she remembered those words. Everything. For the way it had gutted her and ruined what could have potentially been the best night of her life. For the way it had left her aching.

For the way she knew she had hurt him… and herself.

Ruth sat up a little straighter at the counter and blinked, scrubbing the memories from her brain and trying not to feel for the millionth time like a failed artist who was undeserving of love.

“Ruthie, pastrami on rye to-go!”

“Yup,” Ruth answered, swiveling on the stool and scooping up her bag before making her way towards the register. She unfolded five dollars from her pocket and handed it to Lou.

“See you tomorrow, doll,” he said, handing her a paper bag laden with deli goodness and the deceptive apple.

“Yup,” she repeated, giving him a smile.

The benefit of spending nearly a year stuffing her face at the Fan Tan buffet and then wrestling a mere hour later was that leading a workout class post-Lou’s Deli was a breeze. She guided her students through cardio, strengthening exercises, and self defense maneuvers while occasionally throwing in a few choice Zoya phrases to the delight of her class.

She took her ritual route by the newsstand and picked up a copy of the audition posts, planning to pore over it on the subway ride home. The roar of the train and the gentle swaying helped her zone out a little, scanning the casting calls and ignoring the buskers and panhandlers.

The train pulled into the Spring Street station and Ruth hopped off, jogging up the station stairs and making her way down the street. She glanced up as she walked past the independent movie house a few blocks from her place and checked out the marquis. Her feet slowed and she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the words.

The last time she’d seen that title, it had been typed on the packet of sides mailed to her in Las Vegas.

It looked a hell of a lot different up on a theater marquis in the middle of SoHo. 

Ruth scanned the showtimes and then glanced at her watch. Too late for that day. But plenty of opportunity over the next few days.

She hoisted her bag and started to walk again, feeling unsure and anxious, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t like she was seeing them. But in a way…

It was still raw, still pulling at her in a way that sometimes made it hard to sleep and hard to enjoy movies and WWF and De Palma and Kubrick. And Strindberg. And a whole host of other things that used to be hers and hers alone to love.

Ruth unlocked the building door and pushed into the foyer, heading straight to the stairs without checking the mail, knowing that Sheila would have already collected anything that had arrived that day. Letting herself into their little two bedroom railroad apartment, she dumped her bag and the audition paper onto the entry table.

She could hear the television from the front of the apartment and wandered through the kitchen and into the little living room. Sheila was sitting cross legged on the couch, chowing down on some Chinese takeout, her eyes glued to the TV. Ruth plopped down next to her and picked up the unopened box of chow mein and fork that had been left out for her.

“What’s on?” she asked.

“Seventies shock theater,” Sheila said around a mouthful of shrimp fried rice.

Ruth wasn’t too surprised. Sheila was admittedly interested in a _ lot _of things in life, but the macabre still ranked number one on the list.

“Have I missed _ The Exorcist _?”

“Yes.”

“Good, that one gave me nightmares for weeks,” Ruth confessed.

Sheila looked at her.

“Why?”

“Because...Sheila, really?”

“Really. Why?”

“A child gets possessed by the devil!”

“But the devil’s not real, it’s just a movie,” Sheila said practically, ever the realist.

“Tell that to my mother,” Ruth laughed, taking a giant bite of her food. 

“Hm,” Sheila hummed, looking at her as though she’d learned something new.

“Wha’s on now?” Ruth said, holding a hand in front of her mouth so as not to be rude while she ate.

“_ Nosferatu the Vampyre _.”

“Good one.”

They sat and watched the movie quietly for a long time, enjoying the flickering of the screen in the semi-dark room. When the credits rolled, Sheila stood up to turn off the set.

“Interesting films. Always fascinating to see what people are afraid of.”

Ruth watched her as she started to gather up the takeout boxes and napkins from the coffee table. Sheila never seemed to be afraid of anything. Once that wolf outfit burned up in the campfire, she’d been barreling headfirst through life and taking exactly what she wanted every single day. And it was working for her. In the six months they’d been in NYC, she’d landed two staged readings and was in call backs for an Off-Broadway play. Sometimes Ruth wondered whether she was riding Sheila’s rising star or if she was just a giant glutton for punishment continuing to room with someone so vastly different and talented.

“Justine’s movie is playing at the Varsity,” she blurted out.

“Hm,” Sheila said, nodding. “That was fast.”

“Yeah, they powered through it, I guess,” Ruth agreed. She fiddled with her fingers for a moment while Sheila took her things to the kitchen and started cleaning up. Frowning, she took a deep breath. “Do you want to go see it with me tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought, you know, we could grab a bunch of junk food from the lobby for lunch and see the matinée ,” Ruth suggested, forcing the cheer into her voice.

“Mm, that won’t work,” Sheila said, coming to stand in the doorway. “Audition in the morning, so I had to switch my shift at the café to the afternoon.”

“Oh. Oh sure, okay, that’s all right. Another day?”

Impulse control had never really been Ruth’s strong suit. When she was a kid, her mom had been continually frustrated with how Ruth would become fixated on an idea and need, _ need _, to act on it immediately.

“Ruthie, can you just stop and _ think _ before you do something, _ please _?” her mother begged, holding up her responsible older brother and prim younger sister as examples of how to behave.

She never outgrew it. It probably made her a better actress, but it made her a lousy person when it came to patience. So, that’s why she ended up at the matinée alone, her lap filled with popcorn, a hot dog, and a box of Milk Duds. There were only a few other people in the theater, what with it being the middle of the day during the week. That made it much easier for her to come to grips with what she was doing and seeing.

She couldn’t completely put a name to what she was feeling as the lights dimmed and the opening credits of the movie rolled.

Jealousy popped up strong. An aching, a longing for a world that she’d left behind at the drop of a hat. Happiness was trying to budge its way up as she remembered that she really did want good things for Justine.

And then, the final credit words hit the big screen just before the camera panned in for a tight shot of a suburban neighborhood in L.A.

_ Directed by Sam Sylvia _

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Her throat tightened hard and she just barely held it together, completely swamped with anger, sadness, and some strange version of pride she’d never felt before. She forgot all about the food sitting on her lap and for the next hour and twenty three minutes the world disappeared around her. She stayed long after the credits ended and was only finally unseated by an impatient usher who needed to clear the theater, echoing another time in another theater with a man whose career had just jumped so far ahead of her own it wasn’t even funny.

Ruth dumped her uneaten food in the trash and left.


	4. One Less Bell to Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all the wonderful comments :) You have no idea how happy it made me to receive those and I'm so glad everyone is liking the story!

** _ One Less Bell to Answer _ **

Ruth sat with the reality of Justine’s movie alone for the rest of the week. 

It sat heavily with her, to the point of distraction. She faked her way through an important audition and knew she blew it before she’d even left the room. At this point in her career, she should have been used to the polite, “Thank you for coming in, Ruth,” before being dismissed without another glance, but when she knew she was at fault she couldn’t help but feel crushed. 

She tried to snap herself out of it, arguing that she shouldn’t let the film continue to pull her life apart. It was enough that it had cost her important friendships, her aspirations as an actress in L.A., and God only knew what sort of happiness. 

And the worst part was that she wasn’t even able to muster the proper resentment towards the film that she wanted. She wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate everyone involved in it. But she couldn’t. The only thing she could do was continue to recall every beautifully shot scene in that beautifully written movie and remember that she’d acted like a fucking entitled, petulant child when she was told she wasn’t going to get to be a part of it.

In the midst of simmering in her emotions while staring forlornly out the living room window, the apartment phone rang. She picked the receiver out of its cradle and lifted it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, may I speak to Ruth Wilder, please?”

“Speaking,” she said a little more professionally.

“This is Tina Ingram with Northstar Talent, I’m calling about your audition for us. We’d like to invite you for a screen test at the studio in L.A., are you available?”

Ruth had been going to so many auditions in the past several months that she could barely remember which part they were calling her in for. Something to do with international crimes and spies. All she knew was that, after a very brief conversation with Tina, she was booked on a seven AM flight to Los Angeles in two days. They had sides ready for her to be picked up at the talent office in Chelsea and she could drop by anytime. It was incredibly stupid, because what were all the auditions for if not to be called back for something big, but she was panicking at the idea of heading back to L.A. If she couldn’t even land a fucking ten line part in a movie with people she knew intimately, how was she supposed to make it through this?

Ruth pulled on her sneakers before grabbing her purse, deciding that walking to the talent office would be the best way to work out her energy. She could spend the rest of the day reading the sides and getting to know her character. She hustled her way down the stairs to the foyer and pushed her way out into the muggy summer afternoon, instantly swept up in the busy flow of pedestrians. She wove through the crowd and dodged impatient taxi drivers as she crossed the street, forcing her mind to let go of everything except preparing to bring her best work to the callback.

Turning a corner, she encountered the only possible thing that could have wiped her thoughts clean of all of that.

Ruth had learned that Manhattan may have been one of the most populated cities in the world, but in actuality it was incredibly small. So small, in fact, that in a population of over seven million people, she happened to walk down the exact same fucking street as Sam Sylvia. By the time she realized that it really was him and she wasn’t hallucinating, he was mere feet from her and it was too late to make a crafty escape across the street.

He slowed on the sidewalk, his black boots scuffing the cement a little, staring at her like she was a problem to be solved.

And suddenly she thought the sidewalk was going to pull out from under her. Because there he fucking was, with his boots and his jeans and his polo shirt and leather jacket even though it was the middle of summer in the city. And she remembered what that jacket felt like under her hands and the exact way his stubble scratched against her skin, the surprising silkiness of his hair, the smell of his cologne. She really, really wanted a reason to cross the street. Honestly, she probably could have and life would have gone on. Because he glanced away, looking as though he was thinking about an escape plan as well and trying to determine if she was going to require it of him.

In the end, her Midwestern manners won out over her roiling emotions.

“Hi,” she offered hesitantly.

“Hey,” Sam replied, frowning a little.

“I… what the hell are you doing here?” she asked in disbelief, feeling horribly defensive.

“Uh,” he stalled momentarily, glancing away from her again. He coughed and cleared his throat before answering her. “Justine’s movie is playing at a film festival in the Village tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Try as she might, Ruth couldn’t manage to say any more than that despite having a million thoughts shooting through her mind. He didn’t look thrilled to see her and, if that was the case, she would rather end this agony and walk away.

Before she could make any decisions, a fast-paced New Yorker crashed into her shoulder, uprooting her from her firm position on the sidewalk.

“Get outa the fuckin’ way, asshole!” 

“Hey why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going!”

It took a moment to realize that the second round of words hurled came from Sam.

The New York charmer turned around and flung his middle finger up at Sam as he walked backwards down the sidewalk.

“Fuckin’ dick!” Sam fumed, taking a step towards her but keeping his eyes on the man walking away. To her surprise, Sam’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile and he put his hands on his hips. “Shit, it’s good to be back in this city.”

Ruth stared at him, flabbergasted. Only Sam would get a rise out of the verbal sparring that was a daily occurrence in New York City.

“If you enjoyed that, there’s a homeless man who hangs out on Christopher Street who likes to throw garbage and preach about the devil,” she joked.

Sam’s smile increased ever so slightly, then dropped.

“We should … probably get out of the middle of the sidewalk if we’re going to keep talking,” she went on hesitantly, aware that people were still having to maneuver around them.

The corners of Sam’s mouth pulled back and he gritted his teeth. Ruth’s throat constricted and she felt the familiar sting of rejection start to prick her.

“Is that what you want to do, Ruth?” he asked her, refusing to make eye contact. “_ Talk _?”

“No. Yea - I, I don’t know, what, um, what do you want to do?” she asked, her voice uncomfortably high.

Sam let out a deep sigh and looked around the street. 

“I want to find a fucking bar to live in for the rest of the day,” he said, and cleared his throat. “But that’s not gonna happen.”

“So … is, I’m sorry, is that a no?”

“Christ,” Sam grumbled, taking a dramatic step towards the inside of the sidewalk and leaning on the wrought iron rail of the building. He gestured to the space beside him and gave her an expectant look.

Ruth hustled over to stand next to him, relieved and unnerved that he decided to stick around.

“So,” Sam said deliberately. “How are you?”

“I’m … doing okay. Sharing a place with Sheila. Going to auditions. Actually, I was just on my way to pick up some sides for a callback. A TV pilot,” she said pertly.

“Ah, well, good for you,” he replied.

Maybe she was conditioned to hear the worst in people’s comments about her ambitions, but he sounded so distinctly sarcastic that Ruth immediately withdrew. She shrugged and crossed her arms, looking away from him.

“Yeah, well…”

Sam frowned and shook his head.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ruth,” he told her. 

“Nothing. You don’t have to say anything,” she fired back, stepping away from him. “Tell Justine congratulations on the movie. And you, too.”

Face burning with embarrassment and dismissal, Ruth made to walk hastily away from the situation without looking back.

“Ruth.”

She stopped at his firm tone, knowing from the hours of learning every inflection in his voice that it was not angry. She turned and waited.

“I’m glad you’re doing well, okay?” he said simply. “Take care of yourself.”

With that, he was walking away from her and she was left standing with her heart in her mouth.

* * *

  
  


Two days later, Ruth was on a plane from LaGuardia to L.A. via Denver (because every shitty journey ever had to have a layover in Denver), clinging to her travel bag and hoping that the plane ride would provide her enough distraction to actually escape her own thoughts for eight hours. The first leg of the flight was painless and she sipped too-strong airplane coffee while reading her well worn copy of _ An Actor Prepares _.

She caught her connection in Denver with minutes to spare. Shuffling down the aisle and trying not to bump people with her bag, Ruth found her seat. It was a half empty flight and she had no problem finding space for her things. She shoved her bag into the overhead compartment, removed her jacket and tossed it onto her seat, looked up, and froze.

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.

Not ten rows back, Sam was sitting, staring out of the plane window. He hadn’t seen her. Ruth panicked, sitting down quickly and making sure her face was as obscured as possible. If she could just make it through this one last terrible twist of fate, she could go on with her life and try to maintain some sanity.

But, fate was not going to give her any sort of reprieve from Sam Sylvia anytime soon. 

About an hour into the flight, after the drinks cart had made its way through the cabin twice, he got up to use the bathroom. She successfully avoided his eye on his way to the lavatory, and as he made his way back through to his seat she ducked her head and buried her face in her book to try to hide. She could see his black cowboy boots come to a stop right next to her seat and felt her heart start to pound.

“Really, Ruth, you’re going to hide behind the method actor’s bible and expect that I won’t know it’s you?”

Slowly, she lowered her book and tried to primly brush her hair out of her eyes.

“Are you stalking me?” he pressed, only slightly facetious.

“No!” she scoffed, offended that he would think she would do anything like that. “I’m flying out for my screen test!”

“And you just happen to be on the same -”

“I had no idea that you were flying back today!”

Sam pulled his mouth tight and lowered his brow, staring hard at her. He grumbled something inaudible and stormed off.

Ruth thought that was it, taking a quick breath and wringing her hands slightly as she glanced around, hoping no other passengers were thinking too ill of her. Not thirty seconds later, Sam returned with his bag in hand and plopped down in the empty seat across the aisle from her. She gaped at him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Look, okay, I’m not going to ignore you for the rest of the flight. That’s just fucking stupid.”

Ruth nodded, swallowing. She risked a glance up at him as he settled himself into the seat. She’d been so shocked when she’d seen him on the street that the difference in his appearance hadn’t really sunk in. He looked … nice. He’d gotten a haircut and his stubble was somehow less disheveled than it normally was. He seemed tired, though. Tired eyes, a bit shadowy. Most likely overworked from filming and promotion agendas. 

Sam cleared his throat and looked back at her.

“Uh,” Ruth stammered, caught staring. “How, how was the film festival?”

“Good, good,” he said, folding his hands and leaning on the armrest. “Justine did great, you know, really great. Well received.”

Ruth nodded again, a little frantically, and kept her mouth closed on any further comment. In her effort to start a conversation, she’d idiotically brought up the one subject that she really shouldn’t have. But in the moment, it was the only thing she could think of. He must have sensed her discomfort. His face softened a little and he looked at her with those gentle eyes that he reserved for sincere occasions.

“Ruth…”

“It’s fine,” she blurted out, interrupting whatever platitude he was going to offer her. “I’m … happy for Justine, really. And for you. Really.”

Sam looked at her skeptically, but seemed to accept her words. He tilted his head and shrugged.

“Why isn’t she flying with you?” Ruth asked.

“Oh. She met up with some studio friends in the city and they invited her to stick around for a while. I told her she was passing up a perfect opportunity to make some regrettable memories if she didn’t,” he told her. “She thought I should’ve invited you to the festival premiere, by the way. Thought I was fucking rude for not doing that. So, sorry about that.”

That took Ruth by surprise. She had figured Sam would keep their run in to himself, preferring to avoid any mention of her.

“I actually already saw the movie,” Ruth admitted.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really?” he said.

“Yeah. Little independent place I like to go to was showing it this week.”

“And?”

“And … it was good. Really, really good.” She stopped and was quiet for a moment. “And Justine made the right call. I wasn’t right for that part. It would have been all wrong.”

It felt like ripping off a bandaid. The wound underneath might still have been a bit raw, but she instantly knew relief from saying those words. 

When he didn’t say anything, she looked up at him to see his reaction. He was scrutinizing her in that wonderful director way he had about him, but he didn’t do anything more than give her a small nod.

“So … _ An Actor Prepares _, huh?” he ribbed her. “You auditioning with Brando?”

Ruth’s mouth pursed into a smile.

“Very funny, Sam.”

They spent the next hour exchanging small talk about life, mostly the oddities of living in New York city, skirting anything remotely personal or deep. And she was fine with that. If she could walk away from this plane ride with a small heart ache that was soothed by a little reconciliation, she could handle that. She would cope somehow.

“After Vegas, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about making that sort of change, but I like New York. It’s got its charms. And it’s a _ wonderful _place to do character studies,” she laughed.

“Uh-huh.”

Ruth looked over at Sam’s tone. He was grimacing slightly, and for the first time she noticed that his color didn’t seem quite right. Her mouth opened to ask what was wrong but he held up a hand.

“Ruth, can you do me a favor?” he said. “Can you call the stewardess?”


	5. Come Fly With Me

_ **Come Fly With Me** _

“Are you okay?” Ruth asked, reaching up to push the help button.

“It’s just my heart.”

Sam had been trying to ignore the creeping suspicion that he was experiencing more than travel stress and exhaustion for the past day. It didn’t feel like it had the first time. The first time had been fucking textbook, but this - this was a slowly expanding feeling of dread that was leaving him sluggish and nauseated. He had hoped really damn hard that all of it could be explained by jetlag and altitude sickness, but that telltale shortness of breath had snuck up unexpectedly and solidified everything he didn’t want to admit. 

He just needed to get some water to wash down his heart medication. And he also needed Ruth to stop staring at him with that horrified look on her face.

“It’s… I’m sorry, did you say it’s _ just your heart _ ?”

“I had a little… episode, uh, last year,” he said, taking a deep breath and reaching into his coat pocket for his medication. He rattled the bottle at her. “Got these, for emergencies. All under control. But I’m pretty fucking sure I’m gonna need to let the crew know.”

“Sam,” Ruth said seriously, staring hard at him. “What kind of  _ episode  _ did you have?”

“Eh,” he wheezed, popping a pill into his mouth and gulping it down dry. Fuck waiting for water. “Heart attack.”

“Oh my god, Sam. Sam!”

“Quit panicking, Ruth,” he grumbled at her. 

The stewardess finally arrived, and Ruth half stood in her chair.

“He needs help,” she told the woman. “Is there a doctor on board?”

“Oh fuck, could you sound any more cliche?” he ground out.

“Well what else am I supposed to ask, you need medical help!” Ruth lectured.

“That doesn’t mean you have to sound like you’re in a bad soap drama,” Sam said, pulling at the top buttons on his shirt. He was starting to get ridiculously hot all of a sudden and that could not be a good thing.

“Excuse me,” the stewardess interrupted hesitantly. “What is it that you need here?”

“A doctor.”

“A drink.”

Ruth glared at him before looking back at the stewardess.

“A doctor,” she reiterated firmly.

“Okay, I’ll go make an announcement and alert the pilot,” the woman said seriously. “We’ll do all we can.”

She hurried away and Sam watched her retreating back, not entirely convinced things were going to work out in his favor. He pulled open the collar of his shirt, hoping to relieve some of the suffocating feeling. He was, unfortunately, very aware of the nearby passengers watching everything and whispering amongst themselves.

Great, he was a fucking spectacle without escape.

“Move, Ruth,” he commanded, hoisting himself out of the seat.

“What?”

“I’m not going to put on a show for the entire plane in the middle row, move,” he wheezed again, cringing.

Ruth shot up out of her chair and moved out of the way, letting him slip into the window seat. He leaned back immediately and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. After a few moments, he felt his breathing calm a bit, though the tension and general unease remained. He sensed Ruth ease down next to him and waited with his eyes shut.

“Why didn’t you say anything…”

“It was after I left Vegas,” he exhaled, opening his eyes and looking at her. “I didn’t see the point.”

“You didn’t see the point in telling me you almost… that you could have…”

“Well, Ruth, that’s the risk you take with a man who’s almost twice your age,” he snapped, angry that she was making this about her. Again.

It worked. She clammed up instantly, eyes darting away in contrition. 

The stewardess returned with a young man in tow and the emergency medical kit before he had a chance to throw any more insults at Ruth. 

“I found you a paramedic,” the stewardess said hopefully. “We’re in contact with emergency services on the ground.”

“Hi, sir, my name is Anthony,” the young man introduced himself. “You’re in need of some medical care? What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m having a fucking heart attack. Again,” Sam stated in frustration. 

“Okay,” Anthony replied, eyebrows rising. He dismissed the stewardess with a nod of his head, then gestured to the aisle. “I’m going to have you lie down out here and we’ll take a look.”

Sam rolled his eyes, annoyed at being dragged out of his hiding spot. He begrudgingly moved when Ruth scrambled out of the way and lay down to allow the paramedic to check all of his vitals and ask him all of the usual questions.

“Okay, Sam, it seems you are having a cardiac event,” Anthony confirmed. “The crew said we’re about twenty minutes from LAX. So what we’re going to do is give you some extra medication and oxygen and you’re going to sit tight until we land. Ambulance will be waiting for us. Alright?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Anthony gave him a smile that indicated, no, he did not in fact have a choice. The paramedic proceeded to set up the emergency oxygen and checked Sam’s prescription before handing him additional tablets of Aspirin to swallow. He had Sam sit up a little and slipped the oxygen mask over his head, securing it over his nose and mouth. Before Sam could lower his head to the floor again, Ruth was suddenly there, easing his head back onto her lap. He looked up into her eyes.

“Having fun playing Florence Nightingale?” he asked, voice muffled by the mask.

She kept her eyes glued to his and shook her head sharply without a word. He could see the hint of tears starting in those big blue eyes and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Anthony dismissed himself to go talk to the crew with the promise that he would return shortly to continue to monitor Sam. Watching him go, Sam made the mistake of catching a glimpse of every single passenger craning their necks to watch it all unfold. He groaned and looked up at the ceiling, feeling the tightening getting worse.

“Talk to me, Ruth.”

“About what?”

“I don’t, I don’t fucking care, tell me about all the shit you’ve been auditioning for. Just distract me for the next twenty goddamn minutes, alright?”

“Uh,” Ruth stammered. “Okay. Okay, some weird original works - a lot of people trying to be the next Tennessee Williams, lots of family dramas. I mean, I think I’ve gone in for a Shakespeare play about once a week because that never gets old. Someone’s always doing The Tempest. Or Midsummer. Oh,” she laughed a little. “One version of Macbeth where Macbeth’s side are all vampires and Macduff’s are werewolves.”

“The fuck?” Sam said, shaking his head.

“Mhmm,” she, shifting her weight a little and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I was reading for Lady Macbeth. She died in a werewolf attack…”

As Ruth talked, Sam felt her absently start to run her fingers through his hair, delicately, gently. He kept quiet, choosing to close his eyes and listen to her voice, working hard to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable symptoms invading his body. Without realizing it, he had reached up and taken hold of her hand, looking for some sort of anchor as he drifted. The thought that he might actually die this time started to surface in his mind. It made him glad that he’d taken care of Justine’s inheritance at Christmas, but he knew she would be fucking pissed that he would leave her right when her career was getting started. He wanted to say goodbye to her a little better than he had when he left New York.

“Don’t say that.”

Sam’s eyes cracked open.

“Huh?” he asked.

“You just said that you want to say goodbye to Justine,” Ruth whispered, her eyes welling. “Don’t say that.”

“Jesus, Ruth, are you a mind reader now?” he muttered, eyes closing again. Her hands felt so good. He wished he could fall asleep with her hands on him like this every night.

“Sam?... Sam!”

God, he loved the sound of Ruth saying his name…

* * *

Technically, Sam’s heart never stopped. They never had to perform CPR. But the way the paramedics shot onto the plane and whisked him away on a stretcher made Ruth want to scream in agony. She ran down the boarding ramp after them and was only stopped by one of the EMTs holding out a hand at the entrance to the ambulance.

“Family?” he asked loudly over the noise of the taxiway.

“No, but I -”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we can’t let you,” he said firmly. 

“No, I, I need to go with him,” she begged. 

“We can’t let you, it’s against policy,” the man said again, backing away.

“Oh, no, please,” she rambled, desperate. “Please tell me where you’re taking him.”

“UCLA med,” the EMT shouted back at her as they closed the doors to the ambulance and sped away, sirens blaring.

Ruth covered her mouth as she let out a sob, trying miserably to keep herself together. There was no way this was happening, she thought. It couldn’t be real. She dragged her fingers into her hair and looked around, completely lost, standing in the middle of the tarmac with plane engines whirring and luggage carts whizzing by.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. She whipped around and saw Anthony standing there with her bag and purse.

“C’mon,” he said. “I’ve got a car in long term parking, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Thank you,” she exclaimed, choking back tears.

The car ride to UCLA was a blur, all of her thoughts centered on the man she was trying to get to. She didn’t remember how they made it into the hospital or who Anthony talked to to get her allowed into the family waiting room, but it happened all the same. He sat her down and handed over her things. 

“He’s gonna be okay,” he said with a fair amount of certainty. “I’ve seen a lot of people come through my care in a lot worse shape who’ve made it just fine.”

Ruth nodded, worrying the nail of her thumb between her teeth. He bade her goodbye with a promise to check in on Sam’s condition and Ruth thanked him profusely once more. Then she was alone. Waiting in the sterile, silent room and hugging her bags. Over the next several hours she watched people come in, and watched people leave. Her heart leapt every time a nurse came out of the door leading to the recovery rooms, but they walked right past her. And her mind raced the entire time, thinking of every possible outcome to the situation and what she would do. 

What would she do if he… and she had to tell Justine? How could she possibly handle that?

But then what if he was okay and recovered and she had another chance to… well, another chance to be a better friend to him.

The sun had been down for some time when an orderly finally came out of the door and stopped with a clipboard in one hand and a plastic bag of personal items in another.

“Family of Salvatore Sylvia?”

“Yea - uh, yes?” Ruth answered tentatively, standing slowly. “Sorry, did you say Salvatore?”

“Salvatore Frances Sylvia,” the orderly repeated, looking at the clipboard.

“Yes, okay, that’s him,” Ruth said, stepping forward. The orderly looked at her skeptically. “He, he doesn’t go by that name much… Is he okay?”

“In recovery from surgery, doing well,” the orderly said, handing the bag to her. “The attending nurse can give you a more in-depth update when you go back there.”

She took a moment to sign off on a few things on the clipboard and Ruth let out a deep sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping several inches. She shouldered her bags and took a better grip on Sam’s things, glancing down at the plastic container. Tucked in with his clothes, wallet, and keys, Ruth saw a little red and white poker chip. She paused suddenly, staring at the piece of plastic, an obvious souvenir from their time in Vegas.

Why the hell would he have that?

Before she could ponder it further, the nurse was beckoning her beyond the door and into the recovery unit, leading her down the hall towards a private room. Ruth wasn’t prepared for the sight of him hooked up to IVs and machines, looking prone and helpless - so unlike his usual fiery self.

“Someone’ll be by in a bit,” the orderly said, leaving them.

Ruth took a seat next to Sam’s bed, putting her things down on the floor and setting his bag on the bedside table. His eyes peeled open at the noise and he looked over at her.

“Hey,” he rasped.

“Hi,” Ruth replied kindly, smiling and leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

“High as a fucking kite,” he told her with a lopsided grin.

Ruth gave him a humoring look.

“Well, that’s temporary, I’m afraid,” she told him. 

“Too bad,” Sam muttered, licking his lips and tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. “I have a feeling I’m gonna feel like shit when that goes away.”

There he was. Nothing changed, nothing broken. Ruth smiled to herself and couldn’t help but fixate on his face.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Sam,” she said softly. He didn’t respond, clearly drifting back into sleep. Blinking back fresh tears, she fought the urge to hug him. “Really, really glad.”

Moments passed with nothing but the beep of machines and the muted intercom announcements from outside the door. She shifted in her chair, settling back to get more comfortable as she prepared for a long night at his side. No one had said anything about visiting hours and she figured if she didn’t ask, they probably wouldn’t kick her out. 

“Ruth?”

She looked at him. His eyes were still closed, but he had stretched out his hand towards her. It made her sad, for some reason. Maybe because she knew that when he was off the pain medication, he wouldn’t reach for her again. In the meantime…

She placed her hand in his and let him lace his fingers with hers, holding on until he fell asleep.


	6. People Who Need People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MizJoely for agreeing to beta this story even though she doesn't even watch the show. That is true friendship right there!

Ruth woke with a start as a nurse opened the door to Sam’s room, instantly feeling the muscle aches in her body. She’d made a makeshift bed out of the two chairs in the room and her neck was paying the price. She wiped hastily at her mouth and blinked, completely disoriented.

“Good morning, Mr. Sylvia,” the nurse chirped, walking immediately to the machines.

“Mmhm,” Sam answered, rubbing at his eyes.

“How are we today?”

“How the hell do you think?” he grumbled.

“Well, we’ll just adjust the painkillers here, shall we?” the nurse replied, absolutely unfazed by his irritability. She glanced at Ruth. “At least you’ve got some company, that’s always nice.”

Sam’s brow furrowed and his eyes swept around the room, finding Ruth sitting there by the window. His frown deepened and she saw defenses go up. Shrinking a little into herself, she reached for her bag and slipped her feet down to the ground.

“I’ll just…” She gestured to the door and skirted along the wall. “I’m going to go find the restroom. And some coffee.”

The nurse gave her a cheery smile and went back to her duties. Sam continued to stare at Ruth, expression indifferent and unreadable.

The adrenaline of the day before had receded and she was left tired and unsure. Grateful that she had her luggage with her, she took her time in the bathroom, running wet paper towels under her arms, changing her shirt, and splashing water over her face. Leaning on the bathroom counter, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. What was she doing here? She wasn’t family, she wasn’t even sure if she was a friend, and she certainly wasn’t anything more to him. Did she think a few hours of polite conversation on a plane were enough to warrant being his bedside companion in a hospital?

_ Who do you think you are, Ruth? _

Words directed at her from what seemed like years ago.

“I have no fucking clue,” she muttered to herself.

She found the cafeteria and some boiling hot coffee that stripped her taste buds before she could even tell how bad the brew was. It didn’t really matter, all she wanted was the caffeine buzz. She bought a muffin and ate half of it by a window looking out onto a lush courtyard, wondering if she should go back upstairs. She would feel better about leaving if she knew that anyone (and really, anyone was narrowed down to Justine) would be coming to be with him soon. There was very little chance that the young filmmaker would be randomly cutting her New York trip short without knowing exactly what was going on with her father…

By the time she returned to Sam’s hospital room, the nurse had gone and he was propped up a little, poking at a plastic cup of applesauce with a spoon. She lingered in the doorway, watching him.

“I hate it when you hover, Ruth, just get in here,” he said without looking up.

She did as he told her, but stopped at the foot of his bed.

“I...didn’t know how to get in contact with Justine, so, you might want to call her if you haven’t already,” she said, tucking her hands into her back pockets.

“Nah,” Sam said, giving up on the applesauce and placing it on his tray with a grimace. “Not gonna bother her.”

Ruth’s mouth hung open. This was dramatic, even for him.

“Uh,” she said, letting out a sarcastic laugh. “Really? You’re not going to tell your daughter you had emergency heart surgery?”

“I had the surgery scheduled before our trip, she knew about it, it’s just, you know, it just happened a little sooner than planned.”

“Sam,” Ruth said seriously, “you  _ have  _ to tell her. What are you going to do without her here?”

“She’ll just worry, she’ll cancel all her plans, I don’t need to fuck up this time in her life,” he replied, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, uh huh, you only just had open heart surgery, but yes, you’ll be fine on your own,” she countered, dropping her bag onto a nearby chair.

“I’m not fuckin’ paralyzed, Ruth,” he snapped, holding his hands up and wriggling his fingers. “Movement, see? Just fine. You can’t see it, but I can move my goddamn toes too. I would yank up the blanket to show you but, to be honest, it’s fuckin’ cold in here and I don’t want to.”

Ruth watched him start to reach for the pitcher of water on the bedside tray. He didn’t even make it halfway before he winced and pulled his arm back, leaning heavily back into the pillows. She schooled her expression, knowing if she emitted too much I-told-you-so he would snarl and retreat and there would be no working with him at all.

“You’re going to need help,” she said practically. “ _ Someone  _ has to be with you for a little while at least.”

The room got exceedingly quiet. Sam glowered at her.

“No,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “Nah. No fucking way.”

“I don’t mind -”

“I do! I’m supposed to be  _ avoiding  _ stress.”

“Consider me a zen master. A zen  _ servant _ . I can help you out and you’ll hardly notice I’m there. I’ll clean up, I’ll run errands, I’ll cook meals -”

Sam shot her a doubtful look.

“I will  _ order  _ meals,” she amended, pressing her palms to the air in front of her before clasping her hands together.

She paused and waited patiently, watching him frown and glare out the window of the hospital room. Eventually, he looked at her, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you have a screen test to be going to?” he snapped.

Ruth’s mouth turned up into a smile.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. She reached over and picked up her bag again, trying not to look too pleased. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

“Goodbye, Ruth,” Sam said flatly, tilting his head back on the pillow.

“Bye Sam. Don’t alienate the entire nursing staff before I get back.”

* * *

Walking into the studio audition office felt like coming home. The smog tainted summer air outside gave way to sterile air conditioning. Everything was clean, if slightly worn, and a wall of carefully maintained plants sat in front of the windows. There was something distinctly more cheerful about Los Angeles auditions, but the same jaded, cutthroat energy still simmered just below the surface. She avoided looking at the other women sitting in the waiting area and kept her eyes on her script sides until her name was called.

Introductions were made and she gave them an overly enthusiastic smile before standing in front of the camera.

“Alright then, Ruth,” the director said, leaning forward and holding his hands out to emphasize his words. “This man is your enemy. He’s made your life hell. And he’s just killed the only man you’ve ever loved. You had to watch him die and there was nothing you could do… slate when you’re ready.”

Ruth took a deep breath, hearing the backstory to the scene for the first time. She centered herself, holding tight to the script page in her hand. 

“Ruth…” She cleared her throat. “Ruth Wilder reading for Irina.”

“How did you get in here?” the PA at the casting table read off from his copy of the script.

“You think the sorry excuse for security you have here would stop me? You’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Ruth said threateningly.

“Whatever it is you’re here for, you’re too late. I have my people destroying files as we speak.”

“Oh I’m not here for the documents. My superiors have that handled. No, I’m here for something else.” She mimed holding up a gun as the script directed, committing to the action and ignoring how silly it made her feel.

“What are you doing?”

“The same thing you did to him. Showing you no mercy.”

“Please. Please, I have a wife, I have kids.”

“And he had me. But your people didn’t care about that. They tortured him for information. They didn’t care about his life or his work or who he was leaving behind. They should have cared a little bit about that, because he left  _ me  _ behind and I am your worst nightmare. I watched your men shoot him. And when they were gone, I held his hand as he took his last breath. And now you’re going to pay for that. But you won’t have anyone here to hold you, to let you know they love you. No, you’re going to die a sad, lonely death. You took everything I ever loved away from me and I have nothing left to lose.”

The room was silent. She blew out a breath and wiped away an errant tear that had run down her cheek. Things in her life really needed to stop colliding in such spectacularly coincidental ways.

“Great, just wonderful, Ruth,” the casting director said enthusiastically.

“Agreed, well done,” the director said, sitting forward in his chair. “Just one note. Can you do it again, and can you… well, have you seen  _ From Russia With Love _ ?”

It sank in immediately what they wanted her to do. Ruth blinked and shifted her weight, plastering on a fake smile.

“Yup. Got it,” she said, and in a heartbeat she let Zoya take over her body.

* * *

When Ruth returned to the hospital, Sam was fast asleep. The nurse told her that they’d upped his pain killers and that he’d likely be out for most of the afternoon. He’d left an envelope for her on the bedside table. Inside were keys to his house and a note:  _ You know where it is. _

Whether it was just Sam being Sam or his situation making him impatient and short, she was just grateful that he was allowing her the chance to make sure he was okay. She tucked the keys into her purse and let the on duty nurse know she’d be back later in the day.

She hopped on a bus to the familiar neighborhood, walking the last several blocks to his place.

Ruth paused at the foot of the steps and stared up at the front door, inspecting the patterns in the wood. The last time she’d been in LA, she’d been about to drive to this house with Sam. About to sleep with him. About to start a relationship. Or something like it. At least try for some time together to figure it out. That whole night had exploded like a bomb right in her hands. Maybe she was attempting to piece some of that night back together and repair what she’d broken by insisting on staying around to help Sam. Things might never get back to where they had been, but if she could just get to the point where he didn’t look at her like she was poison…

The house was quiet and dark when she walked in, the curtains pulled tight and everything neat and tidy. She placed her bag and purse next to the door and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain aside a little to allow some light in. She turned around and let her eyes move slowly across the room, noting that nothing had changed since her last visit. The place smelled like him. Looked like him. She walked slowly through the space, her hand grazing along his bookshelves, gently touching the books, the records, the knick knacks he had displayed. She lingered at the table, remembering the joy of family dinner night and imagining that the two of them would have enjoyed morning coffee there if she had just stayed.

Hardly thinking about what she was doing, she walked towards the back hall and gently pushed open the door to his bedroom. It looked so peaceful and uncluttered and so incredibly  _ not  _ like Sam. 

Fighting a really strong desire to go in, Ruth closed the door to the bedroom and returned to the living room. Suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the past twenty four hours hit her, she curled up on the couch, pulling the afghan over her shoulders and crashing into sleep.


End file.
